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Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them

I would not trust my heart—the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov’d, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.


Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons

There sits quiescent on the floods, that show,
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;


So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the

shore, “Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," And thy lov'd consort on the dang’rous tide Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'dMe howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, Sails ripp’d, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current’s thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosp’rous course. Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not, that I deduce my birth From loins enthron’d, and rulers of the Earth; But higher far my proud pretensions riseThe son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell-Time unrevok'd has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.


By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd the joys that once were

Without the sin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself remov'd, thy pow'r to soothe me left.

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What virtue, or what mental grace,
But men unqualified and base

Will boast it their possession?
Profusion apes the noble part
Of liberality of heart,

And dulness of discretion.


If ev'ry polish'd gem we find,
Illuminating heart or mind,

Provoke to imitation;
No wonder friendship does the same,
That jewel of the purest flame,

Or rather constellation.


No knave but boldly will pretend
The requisites that form a friend,

A real and a sound one;
Nor any fool, he would deceive,
But prove as ready to believe,

And dream that he had found one.

Candid, and generous, and just,
Boys care but little whom they trust,


An errour soon corrected

For who but learns in riper years,
That man, when smoothest he appears,

Is most to be suspected?

But here again a danger lies,
Lest, having misapplied our eyes,

And taken trash for treasure,

We should unwarily conclude
Friendship a false ideal good,

A mere Utopian pleasure.


An acquisition rather rare
Is yet no subject of despair;

Nor is it wise complaining,
If either on forbidden ground,
Or where it was not to be found,

We sought without attaining.

No friendship will abide the test,
That stands on sordid interest,

Or mean self-love erected;
Nor such as may awhile subsist
Between the sot and sensualist,

For vicious ends connected.


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